Shall We Dance?
by kiriutar
Summary: France is once again on the brink of civil war, and this time he has serious doubts about the outcome. AU/AR Rated for language, adult themes, death. Eventual use of OC s
1. Falling Down

**AN: If you have difficulty reading the dialect, please read the quotations out loud as they are written. -Kiriutar**

* * *

"**Culbuter Carpette** London . . . **culbuter, culbuter** . . ."

Francis was stretched out under a tree on the Southland of his estate, singing softly to himself as he watched the sun ripen the rows of his vineyard. Late summer warmed the gold, near-parched grass under his legs. Tousled hair curled about his shoulders and ears. A breeze skittered through threads whose shades blended seamlessly with the underbrush.

"**Culbuter Carpette **London . . ."

Long lashes shuttered his eyes, expressive brows furrowed at the memory brought by the child's song. Soft and sweet, his voice lilted.

". . . **Mon petit belle **. . ."

"Do you turn to song every time you read?"

Blue eyes opened and met green. Francis snorted softly and closed his book on the burning of London Bridge.

"Some timez eet 'elps sooze a weary mind, non?"

Arthur gave a derisive grunt and settled beside the fop. "You are peevishly sentimental, frog."

"Ah prefer nostalgic, mon perfide enfant," Francis said.

Green eyes rolled in annoyance: "Either way, I can't stand your theatrical demeanor."

"Eew once found eet enjoyable."

"When you and your poets discovered the 'romance of the sonnets,'" Arthur teased.

Francis smiled, the light jibes rolling off his shoulders. His gaze turned back to the rolling hills. Content in companionable silence, he allowed himself to simply exist, the warm sunshine making him sleepy.

He heard a sigh. His gaze did not move, but he felt his chest suddenly grow tight. Arthur was trying to word something specific. Dangerous topics were about to be broached.

". . . You haven't been yourself as of late."

"Zere are people talking war, **Angelterre**-eew know eet eesn't good fehr us when our governors **et** governesses begin to **arguon**."

"Perhaps that is true," Arthur conceded, "but that isn't the case when you so pointedly ignore summons and invitations, and don't come to the Summit or any other world meeting. You're acting like a right foul git."

Francis scoffed softly: "Eew always tell me Ah act een zat way, even eef Ah act ahnuzzer."

"You always act the same, moron."

"**Blessent vou moi**!" Francis exclaimed, a hand flying to his chest in mock astonishment. "Eew wound me!"

Arthur snorted. "It takes a hell of a lot more to put a dent in your armor than that, frog."

"Eew know all about armor, don't eew, pageboy?"

Both blonds dissolved into chuckling, followed by the same pregnant silence as before.

". . . You can't dodge forever, Francis. No matter how apt you are at it."

"'Dodging?' D'eew really zink zat ees what Ah do? Ees zat truly what eew zink Ah'm doing by pulling from zee front lines of zees **fouillis**?"

Arthur glared at the placid older man. "Yes, I think that."

Francis refused to meet the eyes of the younger blond. "Ah really dun want to fight, **Angleterre**. Ah ahm een no mood-"

"If you're ever in a mood," Arthur cut in, "it's only to get laid or pissed."

The Frenchman did not even attempt to retrieve the conversation. He closed his eyes and laid back his head.

". . . Fucking hell, frog, you're just sitting back and letting your country destroy itself," Arthur continued. "It's ridiculous and I'm sick of you playing the 'it'll resolve itself' card. You tried that with you economy a few years back, don't you remember? Remember how well that worked out?"

The younger nation turned when he got no response.

"Fuck it, wino-! Are you even listening to me!"

"Eewr concern ees most touching,** Angleterre**," came the muttered reply.

Arthur gawked at the other. "You just don't right give a damn anymore, do you? Just overjoyed with the fact that no one wants a France anymore. You're an idiot. A self-satisfied prick who can't keep it in his pants and can't keep a bottle from his hand. You and every other French whore."

Francis's stomach turned sour at the harsh words, but he did not deny them. His eyes remained closed and he licked his too-dry lips. Arthur's cheeks began to color, frustration tainting his complexion with blotches of red.

"What the fuck do you expect me to do! You and your bloody fucked expectations and your bloody fucked pride! I can't sit by and let you do this to us!"

Francis finally looked up, anger freezing his eyes: "'Us?' Zere ees no 'us.' Zere ees eew **et** eeor people. Zere ees **moi et** my people. Zere ahre zee uzzers **et** zere people. Zere ees no 'us.'"

England's jaw was completely slack. Francis closed his eyes and stood. He picked up his book, slipped a hand into one of his trouser pockets, and started down the slope of the hill.

"Eew 'ave 'alf an hour to desert zee premises."

England was silent for nearly a full minute. Then: "Don't ever come back to the meeting! None of us will tolerate you! And your boss can rot in Hell!"

Francis did not answer.

"I NEVER NEEDED YOU, YOU BLOODY PRICK!"

He almost winced at the desperation in the final insult. Almost.

* * *

Translations:

**Culbuter Carpette **London, **mon petit belle **= London Bridge is falling down, my little beauty

**Angleterre **= England

**Argoun **= argue

**Fouillis **= folly, foolishness

**Blessent vou moi **= you wound (injure) me

**Et **= and


	2. White Wolf

Francis's depression steadily grew deeper. Only on occasion did he permit anyone to visit, and many of the nations were horrified to learn the most frequent of the visitors was Ivan.

The Russian, when confronted one morning, calmly smiled around the World Summit's table and remarked, "Hees hands are fool keeping the twins apart. The leettle boy likes my toys. And the leettle girl fights like Natalia. It is amusing to watch."

Very few dared call on Francis after that.

Matthew, however, redoubled his efforts, despite the repeated and increasingly nasty rejections. Alfred and Arthur each did their best to convince the Far-North nation to leave Francis alone, but there was no deterring him. "I care for him," Matthew reasoned, "and I am not going to let him shirk his duties to his people, nor to us!"

"Your yammering about it isn't going to get the idiot to open his front door," Arthur said. He tipped his head back as he drained his glass of Guinness. Upon setting the glass on Matthew's kitchen counter, he continued, "It's not like he cares about the rest of us."

"You've been on that stint ever since Francis rescinded his nation's membership from the UN," Alfred said. "If you're that bent over it, why dontcha go beg your 'sid courts' or whatever to dance on his nuts 'til he joins again?"

Arthur's emerald gaze was full of fire as he glared at the reclining American. "Seelie Courts. The Sidhe are neutral elders, not members of the courts. And even if I did, the bloody ass-wipe would not rejoin the UN." He growled to himself as he muttered, "Even though his life depends on it."

Alfred rolled his eyes behind his glasses and took a swig of his Sam Adams. "Iggy, just go and apologize to him. Even if he doesn't accept it, you'll still feel better and you'll stop actin' like a sex-deprived celebrity."

"I am not behaving like-"

Both nations jumped as a door was slammed. They looked around, seeing no one in the room aside from themselves. Alfred sighed.

". . . Matt just went to give Francis a piece of our minds, didn't he?"

Arthur blinked, "Who?"

Alfred glared. "My brother. Matthew Williams. The man you won in a fucking poker game and you raised to be a 'gentleman.' You asshole. You can remember whole books on your stupid pixies, but you don't even remember your own son." Alfred stood up and grabbed his jacket. "I'm going after him; if Francis greets him with a rapier, Matt won't stand a chance."

The Britton standing by the counter could only give a slack-jawed stare as the taller blond growled and muttered under his breath.

Alfred opened the front door and hesitated. He looked over his shoulder. "Y'know, I really can't blame Francis for having told you off. Maybe if you get your head out of your ass, you'd realize that, even if you have the 'language of angels,' you still need to watch what you say."

The sound of the door gently closing sounded like a gunshot in Arthur's ears.

Matthew's trek took him into Francis's recreational hunting grounds. The forest swallowed him like a vast sea, much like the forests of his own homeland. The trees were old, thick, and tall, and the birds flitted through their branches with the ease brought by thousands of years. It unnerved the Canadian by how quiet the forest was. He could hear the wing beats of every bird, the scratching of every squirrel as it ran for cover. But no cry was uttered, no twitter heard. Twigs snapped under his feet, his breath sounded in his own ears as though someone was breathing down his neck, and Matthew's calves and thighs burned from his hours-long hike.

Eventually, he could hear soft chiming echoing through the trees. He closed his eyes and listened closer. The chiming sounded dull and had a constantly changing rhythm. Matthew could almost separate the original sound from its distorted echoing.

_Clang-clang_ . . . _CLANG_! _Shk . . . shk . . . shling-CLANG_!

Matthew frowned. It sounded like swords striking each other.

He opened his eyes and pushed on, moving as quietly as he could through the trees toward the source of the ringing sound.

It was not long before Matthew saw movement ahead. He ducked behind one of the thick trunks and peaked around it. He crept from tree to tree, gaining ground. He saw light just beyond the edge of the trees, a clearing perhaps. He pressed closer, and the sight before him stole his breath for terror.

Ivan, strong, brutish Ivan, was moving around in the knee-high grasses in the clearing. His coat had been discarded in heat and in favor of faster movement, and his scarf fluttered around his neck like a streamer, a ribbon of snow behind him. His pipe glinted like silver in the sunlight. But it wasn't the sight of Ivan on Francis's private property that astounded Matthew.

The young man who was dancing around Ivan looked like an angel of war and wrath descended from heaven.

His eyes were lit with fire like birch leaves lit with sunlight. His jaw was set, teeth like blades exposed between drawn, thin lips. Matthew would have recognized the man's curls anywhere. He had to be one of Francis's twins, the boy Ivan said with whom he enjoyed playing. No wonder Ivan enjoyed it: the younger honey-blond was attacking the older ash-blond with a speed and strength that Matthew could only compare to a German blitzkrieg. The rapier in his hand was light in solid form, metal shavings flying from where the sword struck Ivan's lead pipe.

"**Gostatoshna**," Ivan barked.

The man's upper lip tightened a fraction in annoyance, but he complied with the abrupt command, and stopped short of stabbing Ivan's bare shoulder. Matthew just stood there, leaning around the tree, hidden in the shadows with his mouth open. He was completely enthralled with the predatory grace of Ivan's sparring partner.

"You are coming along rapidly, comrade," Ivan said, his usual creepy smile replaced with one of affection as he took a seat on the rock over which his coat was draped.

"**Nyet**," the other bit out. "Not fast enough." He threw his rapier haphazardly into the grass, growling to himself in frustration.

Ivan watched the other's temper tantrum with passive eyes. "Lawrence, you are being too rash. Relax with me, da?"

Lawrence growled again, and sat at the feet of the enormous Russian. He rested his head on Ivan's knee while tearing apart blades of grass. Several minutes of silence passed them by. The Frenchman's curls lifted and bounced gently as a breeze played through them, the beads of sweat on his and Ivan's arms cooling in the wind.

". . . Papa will not be pleased that you were here, again."

"Even when I brought him a toy?"

Lawrence snorted: "You didn't bring him shit. That rapier is mine."

Ivan laughed softly. "You like my toys, leettle wolf?"

"**Oui**, I do."

"Do you share with your leettle sister?"

"Like Hell. It's my toy, now. If she wants to play with it, I'll get one of her fingers first as insurance."

Ivan's laugh was full and sudden, startling Matthew like a deer. "You amuse me, leetle wolf."

Lawrence grinned up at Ivan and crawled up onto his knees: "I enjoy amusing you, Ivan."

Matthew nearly cried out in shock as the two kissed one another. He turned and ran back the way he came, the sight of the two mentally deranged nations burned into his eyes.

He prayed for Francis, then, and for the rest of the world.

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Translations:

**Gostatoshna (Достаточно)** = enough

**Nyet (не) **= no

**Oui **= yes

* * *

**AN: Lawrence "Federation of the Eastern Gaulite Territories" VanRhine is one of the two OCs, obviously. The dictatorship of traditionalist radicals in eastern France is trading almost exclusively with the Russian Federation for weapons, manpower, and economic support in order to split fully from the French Republic. Yeah, I'll be posting little snippets of "national relations" for this fic along with chapter updates. Next time: the Fleur-de-lis of the French Republic.**


	3. Fleurdeleis

Arthur dreaded watching him walk through the door. His stomach had been entirely in knots ever since Ivan had announced at the last meeting that Francis had it together enough to perhaps make an appearance at the next World Summit. Arthur had not slept for a week, worrying about how he would respond, how he would react to seeing Francis again. After their falling out, neither had called, messaged, or even attempted contact. How could anything positive occur with both of them in the same room?

Matthew was also anxious for the meeting. After the tryst he witnessed, he avoided Ivan like the plague. Only one person knew of what he had seen.

"You don't know if there's anything of consequence between them, Mattie!" Alfred murmured in his ear. "It could be the two of them are just-"

"Just what, Al? Shoving their tongues down each other's throat with the perverse hope that one of them will bite the other's off?" Matthew shuddered in his chair, watching warily as the Russian entered the meeting room and took his chair near the window. "I'm positive that it's something big, eh. If I'm wrong, I'll be your 51st. But, I'm not wrong. I know what I saw, Al, I just don't know what it means!"

The North American twins settled back in their chairs as Ludwig stood and cleared his throat for quiet.

"As many hauv you know," the German began, "ve have been having difficulty keeping ze peace vith ze constant vorry hauver our European bases, friends, und employees involved vith ze current French Civil War." Many of the nations murmured their agreement. "I propose ve settle ze situation via mediation."

"Francis ees not een cont-drol," Antonio said. The Spaniard shook his head, "I am vedy sure talking weet heem would not solve any-ting."

Matthew and Arthur recognized this tactic: Antonio and Ludwig must have conferred before the meeting in order to have a planned presentation. Antonio often played stupid, but both other nations had been close enough to him to know he was fully capable of pulling such a maneuver. Alfred, unfortunately, was not as aware and played right into their hands.

"Who'd ya talk to instead?" he asked. "Francis is France, so he's who we talk to, isn't he?"

"Not in zis case, **mein **friend," Ludwig said. "Ze parties in question must be made to settle zeir affairs vere zey vill not put innocents in harm's vay."

"You're bloody joking," Arthur said. Other nations turned to look at him, surprised at his outburst. "You aren't seriously implying we bring those psychopathic twins into the same room! That's suicidal! That's like locking Ivan and Natalia in a broom closet!"

The Russian growled from behind his scarf, his mouth hidden and his eyes fixed on Arthur, warning him from mentioning his incestuous, irrational younger sister. Natalia, the incarnation of Belarus, was not a woman that many of their company enjoyed being around.

Antonio gave Arthur a sympathetic look: "Eit-er we do tis now, or eet happens along wit **mucho** bloodshed."

Arthur threw up his hands, "Fine. Do what you want."

Ludwig gave Arthur a long look, and then pressed the secretarial call button on the landline on the desk before him. "Send zem in."

The nations turned to watch as the door opened.

A tall, slender woman stepped into the room first. She wore her hair short in a messy bob, loose, fair curls tumbling around her thin face and high cheekbones. Her person was very urban and high class; she was dressed high-heels and trim business suit; and her fierce blue eyes were filled with determined light.

Arthur swore quietly to himself: this woman was Joan, back from the dead. All she was missing was knights' armor and a white charger.

Her gaze met his, and she smiled. The fire in her eyes met the ice in her grin and magnified it tenfold. Arthur looked away.

Matthew fidgeted in his chair as Lawrence entered. His own curls were greasy and a mess, a soldier's cap perched on top of the nest of yellow hair. His blue uniform otherwise looked pressed and neat. Matthew swallowed audibly as he caught sight of the rapier hanging at his side, and watched as he went to stand in front of Ivan. He did not miss their too-long-lingering glances.

"Jeanette," Ludwig addressed the woman. "You haupen your arguments first."

"**Merci**," she said. Without hesitation, she dropped a briefcase on the desk beside her and opened it with a click. She drew out a folder of papers and slapped them beside the briefcase.

Alfred looked at Matt and Arthur, astonishment painted thickly over his face. This was Francis's girl? Very few of the nations ever prepared anything for a presentation so thoroughly that it warranted a locking briefcase and full notation accompaniment.

"My argument is simple. The Federation of Eastern Gaul Territories _should_ be allowed to separate from France. In its separation, the remaining portion of the one-time nation of France will be re-named: the Western French Republic. There will be a ceasefire betwixt our two nations, and in two months' time, an official boundary will be drawn up."

Ludwig looked a little shell-shocked. He obviously had been prepared for a slugfest. He looked to the Frenchman and opened his mouth to speak-

"The Federation of Eastern Gaul Territories wishes to make one amendment to the proposal, dear sister," Lawrence said, cutting through Ludwig's address.

"**Oui, frère cher**?" Jeanette's gaze was as lethal as her tone.

"The F. E. G. T. will be put under the protection of the Russian Federation as a territory and supplementary state."

"Done."

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then all hell broke loose.

Nations jumped from their seats, papers went flying, fists pounded the desks, and the whole room was filled with cries of shock and outrage. Amidst the chaos, Matthew hurried to the door. He ran into the hallway, escaping the palpable noise of the meeting room. Panting, he slid down the wall, his knees to his chest.

His feelings were screaming loud and clear that he had been right, but he still did not know what the new alliance meant for the world. He was certain that where the nations were heading was a place none of them wanted to be.

He looked up at the sound of heeled boots striking the tiled floor of the hallway. Matthew's eyes widened behind his glasses.

"**Je vais Accueil, petit ange. Vous avez un travail difficile devant vous, maintenant. Assurez-vous de Qu'angleterre n'obtient pas trop ennuis**."

Matthew's lip trembled, and tears slipped down his cheeks. He nodded several times.

"**Bon gar****c****on**."

The long fingers that brushed his hair from his eyes were skeletally thin and as smooth as silk. It took all of his willpower to watch their owner stride back down the hall. When he disappeared around the corner, Matthew openly wept, knowing he'd never hear that voice again, save for in his dreams.

* * *

Translations:

**Mein** = my

**Mucho** = much

**Merci** = thank you

**Oui, frère cher?** = Yes, dear brother?

**Je vais Accueil, petit ange. Vous avez un travail difficile devant vous, maintenant. Assurez-vous de Qu'angleterre n'obtient pas trop ennuis.** = I'm going home, little angel. You have a difficult job ahead of you, now. Make sure England does not get into too much trouble.

**Bon gar****c****on** = good boy

* * *

**AN: Next, "Going Home" means going farther than one assumes: there is no home for a man without a country.**


	4. Going Home

Rain fell in a light mist over the deep green hill and golden plains of the many hectares of his land. Over the ruins of Versailles, the pallid sky turned soaked, rotten wood even darker shades of decay. The rot made his footing treacherous as he picked his way through the splinters and invading field-growth.

The estate had once been his home. But that was when France was a monarchy, and the royal family had him as a permanent guest. Now, forgotten by the modern world, after the bloodiest revolution the world had ever seen, the mansion was in a state of complete disrepair.

Mother Gaul would have loved this place as it currently was. In its heyday, she would have burnt it to the ground. But as his own people had done just that, he supposed it was one and the same. A wry smile at the thought turned his recently stoic features into a ghost of their prior theatrical joy.

"She'd tear me a new one if she saw me like this. 'Stupid child, playing cat-and-mouse with the sons of Germania and Roma! They'll carve your ass and tie you down, someday, Francis . . ."

Blond brows furrowed as he lost his train of thought amid the debris on the floor. His eyes wandered over the fallen walls, recalling how they stood so tall in paints of damask and pale chartreuse. A mirror here; a painting there; a pair of doors-

His breath hitched as he remembered the hallway, as clear in his mind's eye as the rot at his feet.

The floor was polished to a shine; almost enough to reflect back his face from the pool of wood-grain waves. Carefully crafted moldings and details were set in delicate vertical lines up the tall walls. Chairs and cabinets and bureaus lined the wide oriental carpet, all of them lavish, exotic, and the best money could buy. He could even smell the lilies and roses in their porcelain vases upon equally beautiful tables.

His feet and memories took him into the nursery. Such delicacies as seen in the hall were continued here, as was the fashion. He could see Marie-Therese, in her play-gown, sitting upon the floor with a lamb-skinned toy in her lap; Jean-Claude had his shoes kicked off and was running about, the nanny hobbling after and shouting obscenities; and little infant Christian-

He fell to his knees, the realness of his visions ripping tears from long-dry wells of mourning. He sobbed into the arms of his shirt, his tall frame doubled over as his past overwhelmed him, frightening visions stealing away his carefully constructed mask. He did not need to open his eyes to see the pools of blood. Even amidst the sigh of the rain, he could hear the screaming of his loved ones: the children he adored, the children he killed.

Once he was again seated in reality, he found he had settled under the open window, a moth-eaten baby blanket clutched to his chest. If he breathed deep enough, he could smell the chloroform still upon it. Blue, sightless eyes stared at the floor, and he allowed himself to become lost in memory.

'. . . **Angleterre **had found me here. In this same spot. Christian was sleeping in this blanket . . . forever sleeping . . .' His shoulders trembled, thinking, 'He goaded me into rebuilding, tricking me . . . lying to me . . . just like he had when Jeanne was . . . **merde, je déteste ce con**.'

Eventually, he gathered enough of himself to pull a small bottle of cheap wine from his pocket. It was ironic that the name was Lily D'Arc. He unscrewed the cap and took a sip.

'. . . When he finds me here, he'll finally have his requite.'

He pulled a glass vial from his stocking and poured the contents into the wine. He swirled the concoction. When it had mixed satisfactorily, he heaved a sigh. He raised the bottle.

"Here's to you, **petit lapin**: may your beer be sour; your whores, too smart for you; and your bed, empty. You have enough power in your old age to keep you amused without fucking everyone else over."

He took a swig of the wine and lifted his bottle again.

"To my sons and daughters, may you learn to never ignore ulterior motives and remember to insult your friends as harshly as your enemies."

Second swig.

"And lastly, to my people, without whom I would not have been and with whom I am well pissed."

He drained the bottle, coughing softly as he choked. Without hesitation, he tossed the empty glass aside, throwing his hands above his head as it shattered.

The deed was done. All he had left was to fall asleep.

It was not long before he could feel his hands growing cold, his chest becoming tighter with each long, languid breath. Eyes closed, his fair curls were let loose from the blue ribbon that had kept them back. He unbuttoned his shirt and held the blanket closer, remembering the feel of Christian, all his beloved children in his arms. Song tumbled from his lips: an old lullaby tiredly threaded through the air. His own voice soothed him as he crooned to the ghosts around him.

". . . **frère Jaques** . . . **frère Jaques** . . . **dormet vous**? . . . **Dormet vous** . . . ?"

As his voice and breath faded into a death rattle, his thought turned to what he was leaving behind.

". . . **Angleterre** . . . **mon coeur** . . . **pardennez-moi** . . ."

The whispered plea was answered by the twittering of a blue jay, rejoicing as the rain lifted.

The reply went unheard.


	5. Do Not Leave Me

"-Was found dead in an abandoned building-"

"-Site of apparent suicide-"

"-Locals are in dire straits after the passing of an icon-"

"-Word of a treaty, finally, between the Western French Republic and F. E. G. T.-"

"-Loved ones are baffled and caught by surprise-"

"-Neglected to comment after the private funeral-"

"Will you PLEASE turn off the bloody telly! I'm sick of listening to those ghastly reporters!"

Arthur could barely hear himself think over the constant roaring from his sitting room. Alfred has the volume on the television turned up much too high. It was no wonder the man was practically deaf. He had his feet up on the coffee table, again, and he kept hitting the channel advance button like he had a nervous twitch.

Arthur was, himself, on his fourth cup of tea this morning. The brew was never strong enough, no matter how long he let the leaves steep. His pounding head was not helped by the incessant droning beyond the kitchen doorway.

"Alfred, turn the damn thing down! Please!"

Once again, there was no significant change.

"Turn it down, now! Or I'll shove the sodding remote so far up your arse-"

"Can it, Arthur!"

Alfred shut off the television and chucked the remote across the room. He did not even flinch when it put a dent in the wall and knocked over a china vase. Arthur came running out of the kitchen as the vase shattered on the floor, wildflowers everywhere and water soaking the carpet.

"Alfred! Look what you've done! Don't throw things in my house-!"

"Stop being such a dick, then!" Alfred looked at the elder blonde with frustrated tears in his eyes.

"You let yourself into my house! That warrants dickish behavior, you know! Though, I'm not going to sink to your level-"

"I came over to check on you!" Alfred screamed. "You haven't talked to anyone in days-"

"You! Check on me! All you've done here is the same thing you do at home: eat and watch the fucking telly!"

"Because you won't let me do anything else! I offered to cook for you-"

"You can't cook any better than I can! If I wanted something cooked, I'd have called Francis! But, no! He's six-feet under! The only thing he's making is devil's food cake in hell!"

Alfred just stood there in shock, watching angry tears run their way down Arthur's cheeks.

They both stood there, no longer willing to shout at the mention of the recently departed. That name was the second of their personal taboos, now. The air in the Britton's house was thick with dust, tension, and unspoken hurt.

Arthur was the first to look away. He tromped back into the kitchen, turned to the stove, and turned down the pilot light. He leaned over the tea kettle, his shoulders high as if he'd been slapped. Alfred watched in silence as the other collected himself.

". . . Tea or scotch?"

". . . It isn't even noon, yet, Arthur . . ."

". . . Tea, then."

Alfred shifted his weight as the tea was poured. Arthur got a stool from the corner and reached into one of the much higher cabinets. The American frowned at the sight of the decanter that was set on the counter.

"I said-"

"It's for me. Tea's for you."

The younger blonde removed his glasses and pinched his nose. The headache he was suffering made today just that more fucking fantastic. He heaved a sigh and went into the kitchen.

Arthur already was tipping back his glass. He did not see his friend sit at the little kitchen table, nor did he see the concern in Alfred's eyes as he looked once more at the floor.

The only sound in the house was the ticking of Arthur's old musical grandfather clock. Alfred carefully picked up the hot china teacup and turned it about in his hands, watching the steam rise. Movement caught his eye, and he looked up in time to see Arthur pour himself another large cupful of the amber spirit.

". . . I saw the ring outside," Alfred slowly began. When Arthur did not respond, "I thought you'd given up dancing the-"

"That white-cap ring was from a month ago. Fr- . . . _He_ . . . insisted I leave it. Said he wanted to join me. The next time . . ."

". . . Guess that idea's been scrapped."

Arthur swirled the booze in his glass.

". . . The others were concerned about you at the funeral. Antonio was . . . Feliciano couldn't stop crying. No one could settle him. Everyone was surprised you-"

"I didn't go because I didn't have time. People die. The world turns. I had work to do," Arthur snapped.

"But-"

"They can mourn their own ways. Let me do the same in mine."

Green eyes flashed in harsh anger and Alfred fell silent. He watched the glass be drained, the creamy apple of Arthur's throat bobbing with each swallow. Alfred screwed his eyes shut; he couldn't hold back:

"Matthew didn't show, either."

Arthur's whole body began to shake. He lowered his glass, awash in memory. He bit his lip and furrowed his brow, hunched over. Alfred frowned, watching red blot Arthur's cheeks and stain his ears. He had no idea how loudly the words "**non lasciare me, papa**!" echoed in the Brit's ears. He was Arthur's lips move, but missed his words.

"What did you say-?"

"GET THE HELL OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

Alfred barely ducked the glass. Arthur continued to throw whatever he could get his hands on while the other blond fled. Only once the door was slammed behind the retreating American did Arthur collapse on the floor, weeping.

His sobs were terribly quiet in the large, empty house. It never used to be too big, no too quiet. It was perfect for when his closest friend would drop by unannounced. It was painful to not hear the curly-haired fop come bursting through the door with his usual "**bon jour, mon couer**!"

Arthur still startled awake in expectation.

It hurt entirely too much to think on him.

"Francis . . . Francis, you bloody frog . . . Stupid git, I didn't mean it . . . I didn't mean it when I told you I didn't need you . . . You weren't supposed to believe me . . . Come back . . . **N****on lasciare me** . . ."

He sat there, his face in his hands, for hours. The passing of time only aided in the production of an incurable migraine and a queasy stomach. His breathing, at least, had calmed into a more steady rhythm, Arthur looked at the shards of glass and porcelain upon his floor. When his gaze settled on a particular cup, he was swept up in a fresh wave of tears. He crawled to the mess on his hands and knees, oblivious of the cuts from the debris. He picked up one of the pieces and drew his thumb over the fleur-de-leis.

The teacup was the one he had bought for Francis.

_"You gave it to me, **Angleterre**. Why would I use any other?"_

Arthur collected all the pieces he could find and sat at the table. Shard by shard, he began to mend it.


	6. New Game For Old Players

For the next several weeks, the World Summit had been a flurry of activity. Jeanette Bonnefuille was a mover and a shaker throughout the whole process of the seceding of the F. E. G. T. Several of the nations were relieved that she took such complete control of the ordeal. Antonio and the Vargas brothers openly voiced their trepidation of her becoming a member of the United Nations, but her tenacity and overbearing demeanor left all three older men with locked mouths and shifty eyes, looking about the meeting room for any and every available exit.

Arthur reappeared at the third meeting after Francis's funeral. He hardly spoke, even when addressed, and his tea almost never left his hand. Alfred tried to assure the other nations that Arthur was fine, but the disbelief in his own voice did nothing for his case. Alfred, himself, looked very preoccupied. If anyone had paid him enough attention, they would have noticed his frequent glances to the unoccupied chair to his left.

Everyone noticed Canada's return.

The double doors at the end of the meeting suite swung open with a loud bang and a string of rapid French and English curses. Alfred's mouth hung open as Matthew-he _thought_ it was Matthew-tromped into the room, his nose held high in disdain as he passed behind Jeanette's chair. The bear that was usually wrapped in his arms had been replaced by a rather large bouquet of pink roses. His red hoodie had been abandoned for a red silk shirt, a white and gold maple leaf stitched over his heart. And his smile was non-existent. His pale, pouting mouth was pulled uncharacteristically thin by a sneer.

The nations had all fallen silent at the entrance of the North American, many of whom had taken to staring as he walked around the table to stand behind Arthur. The Britton for his part had not looked up. The roses were dropped unceremoniously in front of him.

"You like my roses from Victoria," the voice behind him flowed. The thinly veiled hurt made Arthur's skin crawl. "They're nice this year. Even in Quebec, they're the best we've ever had." Arthur did not turn from the kiss that brushed the shell of his ear; his heart clenched too tight in his chest to allow him movement. He wasn't prepared for the whisper at the back of his neck: "It hurt Papa to know you were crying inside. Don't you dare insult him by hiding." He watched through tearful eyes as the Canadian strode away and took his seat beside Alfred. Matthew leaned back in his chair to prop his feet up on the span of desk before him.

As the meeting resumed, Matthew noted the empty chair by the window, and the absence of a particular Northern superpower.

* * *

Lawrence stood at the window, looking out at the thinning daylight, his body gloriously devoid of vestment. He had watched the sun set beyond the western mountains, the west-most boundary of Russia-proper. Now, after strenuous activity and well-deserved rest, the Gaul was enjoying the relative quiet of the large master suite he had come to enjoy. The dark, rich wood was expensive in this white wilderness. He supposed the cavernous room suited the bear-like man who owned it. Then again, Ivan owned everything he saw. Lawrence was not exactly jealous of Ivan. Nor was he exactly content with his own current status.

He ghosted a hand over the bruises on his shoulders and hips, and the smirk widened.

Oh, he enjoyed it certainly enough, being under the rule of the inconsiderate nation, but eventually he would have to assert himself.

Lawrence turned from the window and gazed at the bed. Ivan was still asleep, if his snoring was any indication. The Russian's broad chest rose and fell, the white muscle littered with nicks and scratches, bruises and scabs-he was beautiful. Terrible, awful, and violent, yes, but incomparably beautiful. Lawrence knew it was not the planes of muscle and skin that made his mouth water; neither was it the simple, almost naive manor in which the man-child spoke that made him want to smack that soft-chiseled cheek; nor was it the feeling of alien fullness, the painful, terrifying invasion of his main body that made him scream for pleasure.

The sheer power of the creature was like a drug.

And Lawrence wanted that power for his own.

He dressed himself efficiently, and straightened his clothes. Lawrence noted the several popped buttons on his dress shirt with a frown; Ivan was not known for his patience. He sighed, belted up his uniform trousers, and tied his rapier to the leather. He put his hand on the doorknob when a gold glint caught his eye.

Lawrence went over to the dresser and picked up a chain. A little hammer and a tiny sickle dangled off the bottom, the charms clinking together, the diamonds set in them glittering as they caught what little light still filled the room.

"Hm. One with Russia, da?" Lawrence murmured. His smirk darkened: "One with Gaul."

He pocketed the necklace and left Russia's bedroom.


	7. Forgiven   ?

The cemetery was dark. The rain had soaked everything into a deep gray, and the wet headstones glistened orange from the streetlamps behind him. It made the blacks look blacker; the shadows, longer and more ominous. It frightened him, he realized, how easily those forms shifted and danced just beyond his peripheral vision. It made him feel more like he was being watched than usual. And those eyes were full of malice and ill-will.

It was not like he had been avoiding this place. No, that was not the case at all. His shoddy lorry was not functioning properly and he had only just grown a big enough pair of balls to get his old Morgan out of its space in the garage and risk its gorgeous reconstruction on the dark, wet streets. And now, finally at the foot of the grave, fresh-turned earth running with rain over his shoes, he looked at the name chiseled cleanly upon the marble headstone that also read "Requiem en Pace."

He stared at it. Leered. Glared, snarled, sneered-anything but allow himself to recognize the water streaming down his cheeks were not only raindrops.

And he hurt.

His heart screamed and wailed in mourning. If it weren't for his gentlemanly inclinations, he would have fallen to his knees and beat upon the stone, cursing at it, at the life it represented, the life cut far too short for his liking. Weeping and swearing, he would have shrieked at the cold thing how none of his tributes had been taken or answered, how the Wee Folk refused to dance in his garden for as long as he went without the other. He would have. But he did nothing of the sort.

He stood there and cried in absolute silence.

In his mind, his own voice echoed like a broken Beatles record, scratched and repetitive, squealing as it played the same line over and over. He supposed he deserved it for being such a horrible friend, an irresponsible lover, a less-than-adequate adversary. But something in the back of his head demanded more of him. There was more suffering yet to endure to atone for his sins.

He sighed.

"Francis, I royally fucked up, didn't I, chap?" His leather driving gloves squeaked as he clenched his fists. "I know I say things I don't truly mean. But I . . . I needed to tell you I'm sorry that I hurt you so. I'd . . . take it all back, if I were able. But you and I both know that's not a possibility." A sigh passed between his lips, "So, much good it does me, apologizing to a grave."

He looked down at his feet for a moment. He made a face. Contorting in bizarre fashion, he ripped his boots from his feet and dumped them in a pile beside the grave. He curled his toes. The wet grass and marshy soil under his soles squelched softly, barely heard over the rain still falling.

"There, that's better, I think."

The mud underfoot positively thrummed with the power of the wakeful dead. There was so constant a pulsing, his feet nearly vibrated as their tell-tale hearts pumped, still keeping time with the world around them as they slowly and surely decayed.

Francis's own heart lay darkened, several hundred miles to the south. The downpour was not so much in the physical, there, but the cold lifelessness currently embodied by the French peoples, especially Parisians, was inarguable. There was barely a pulse under the visitor's toes.

"It's so strange, old boy," he murmured. "You were one of the liveliest of us all-even if you weren't at the forefront of everyone else's head." His eyes slipped shut against a rebellious pair of tears. "It's hard to believe you're really gone. And no matter how many boons I take, beg, and pilfer, I'll never get you back."

He wiggled his toes in the mud.

"Your son put me to rights the other day," he said. "Shot me down off my high horse like you used to do. Only, he lacked your tact to do it in private. But his sheer brutality in the matter more than made up for it." A breathy chuckle escaped his lips. "And mine - - - dear God - - - Alfred's acting like he actually possesses common sense. It's like they're two different people. I'm actually scared of them, Francis."

The headstone glittered orange in the half-light.

"I don't know what to do, frog. I'm at the end of my rope where the twins are concerned." He shifted his weight, contrapposto, his feet freezing. "Alfred's right about me-I've had that thrown in my face again. I can't see past the end of my own nose when I refuse to take a peek. And everyone's probably agreeing with him, even if only in their heads. And Matthew . . . Bloody hell, Matthew's terrifying."

A siren blared somewhere in the distance behind him.

"Yeah, that terrifying. Actually, he's even more so than your youngest twins." He shifted again on his feet, trying to keep what little feeling was left in them. "Jeanette is cold - - - calculating. I can't be in the same room with her. She reminds me far too much of Joan. I swear the woman was born of the Wrath of God."

Lightening flashed somewhere far off.

"And Lawrence is . . ."

Thunder rumbled.

The visitor hung his head. "There's going to be fighting if he keeps this up. I can feel it in these old bones. At least you won't see the burning."

Green orbs glowed in the dark as they focused on the name carved on the headstone. They bloomed, suddenly, and filled with golden anger, as brilliant as the aura that flickered around him.

"Goddamnit, you fucker-! Why won't you answer me!"

The presence under his feet shifted, and a familiar cloying scent of Bordeaux, tea roses, and Lux cologne thickened in the air around him. His eyes slipped closed as the warmth behind him grew and enveloped him. He was unconsciously aware of the ring of ice that had formed around him and the grave, the sphere of awareness surrounding him kept warm and free of errant raindrops. And his tears sprung anew as he sank into the feeling of serenity. A steamy breath ghosted over the back of his neck. The shiver that wracked the small man's body had nothing to do with the chilly weather.

"Even after death, you're still playing me like one of your fucking violins."

The air around him warmed, and he could have sworn the lips pressed to his nape had shifted into a smile.

"I missed you."


End file.
